Only a Paper-Thin Line Between Versatile and Invisible (1)

Kim Choon-jae. The nickname of Jeonbuk's midfielder was Choon-je — the Emperor of Spring.

Taken at face value, it sounded like the kind of moniker reserved for a genuinely outstanding player. Once you learned what it actually meant, though, you couldn't exactly celebrate it.

After all, the reason he'd earned that nickname hadn't been a good one.

The Emperor of Spring.

If he was an emperor, why slap "Spring" in front of it?

The answer was simple.

The moment spring arrived, Kim Choon-jae's form rocketed so hard it bordered on league-best. And the rest of the year?

Straight into the gutter.

Whatever madness he'd shown in spring vanished completely. He limped through the season looking half-dead, and the most he got was minutes off the bench. A player who peaked and faded with the season — that was him. The nickname wasn't praise for how well he played. It was a jab at how completely his form collapsed the second spring was over.

And when you factored in the climate chaos of global warming — weather so deranged that April already felt like summer — the number of matches where Choon-jae hyung actually looked sharp maxed out at maybe three.

Which drove fans and managers alike up the wall.

What the hell was the problem, that his form just tanked the moment the season changed? But then again, dumping a player who put up apocalyptic numbers in spring the way Guti used to on his day? You couldn't quite do it. Fix just a few things and he'd genuinely be solid — that hope was enough to make people lose their minds hanging on.

Even so, patience had its limits. There were times when everyone decided they finally had to sell him… and then, as if some scrap of DNA in his body was coded to keep him at Jeonbuk, he'd suddenly spit out a stretch of pure Choon-je form out of nowhere.

What was it again? He'd done it so often that whenever Choon-jae hyung started cooking outside of spring, the joke went around — "Did Choon-je switch the seasons or something?"

Hilarious for everyone else. Mortifying for the man himself.

Which was probably why, even back when I was still Kang Yun-ho, Choon-jae hyung used to beg me to stop calling him that to his face. It was that much of a humiliation for him. But I never once saw him as just a boom-or-bust player.

More precisely, I didn't see a colorless, flavorless midfielder who turned to dust after spring. I saw someone who still had the potential to become a genuinely versatile piece.

Just look at the tools. One-eighty-three, tall for a midfielder, left-footed — so a precise right-footed pass or strike was out of reach, but ball control? He could handle that just fine. And he was a multi-position player who could cover left-back, defensive midfield, and central midfield without complaint.

Sure, as a number six he was more of a box-to-box type who joined attacks than a pure holding or anchor midfielder. But the gap between being able to fill that role and not being able to at all was night and day. That still counted as a strength.

Weaknesses: a bit slow on the mobility side, and his stamina was poor enough that he wilted as the second half wore on.

And once the legs went, his decision-making seemed to go with them — forced tackles on hopeless balls that earned him cards, stretches where he simply couldn't keep up with the tempo of the match.

He also struggled when a game overheated into overload, or when the other side put him under concentrated pressure.

But I think I can fix at least some of that.

Put everything I knew about Choon-jae hyung together, and the evaluation looked roughly like this:

Weak stamina, limited mobility. Overwhelmed when too many roles pile onto him mid-game or when the press gets severe. On the other hand, his ball control is as good as anyone's in the league — and if the match can just settle into his tempo, the weaknesses shrink and that old Choon-je form comes roaring out.

Control the tempo for him, take a little of the load off his shoulders, and you could have yourself an outstanding multi-role piece across the second and third lines?

And I don't even need to bark orders at him. Drop him into the third line and the pressure eases on its own. All I have to do is match his tempo.

There would still be some defensive anxiety, sure. But if I just ran a little more so he could feel secure, Choon-jae hyung's natural game would come out that much freer.

Which meant what I needed to do with him was obvious.

"What? Why are you staring a hole through me like that? You got something to say? Go on — I've got time."

"You've got time? You finished that energy bar already, right?"

"Energy bar? Yeah, I finished it. Why?"

"Figured we'd work on our chemistry. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Get your form up a bit before the Ulsan match."

"What?"

Choon-jae hyung looked at me like he genuinely didn't understand a word. I let the corner of my mouth curl up.

Once March hit, the K-League kicked off in earnest.

Jeonbuk's Round 1 opponent was Ulsan MR — last season's defending champions out of the twelve clubs — and it was a home match.

True to a match at Jeonju Castle, the Mad Green Boys were already belting out the anthem like lunatics before kickoff had even arrived.

With that roar as his backdrop, the manager stood in the center of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠locker room, took a steadying breath, and announced the starting lineup.

"Alright. Today's starting XI looks like this. If you haven't fully locked it in yet, check it one more time and remind yourselves what your jobs are tonight."

Instead of the 3-2-4-1 he'd used against Suwon, the manager had drawn a new blade: the 4-2-3-1.

Reading between the lines, he wanted to deploy the outstanding fullback duo of Han Gang-rok and Han Gyeong-rok as inverted fullbacks, and to keep the rear build-up stable through a fluid 3-2 structure.

"Hmm…"

Most of the squad had already heard the starting lineup back at the clubhouse, so they just nodded or slipped into their own pre-match routines. Choon-jae hyung, though, couldn't hide the cowed look on his face.

He was clearly feeling the weight of being asked to play in the third line rather than the second line he was used to.

I understood that completely.

Playing an unfamiliar position was hard enough. Doing it for the first time in the Mirae-ga Derby? How rough was that going to be?

And Ulsan, same as Suwon, was the kind of opponent Jeonbuk absolutely had to beat.

Jeonbuk and Ulsan. Two clubs that treated each other like blood enemies.

Back when both sat under the same Mirae-ga corporate umbrella, people said the relationship had actually been pretty warm. Then Jeonbuk beat them in the 2006 ACL semis, and a real rivalry took root. Fuel got poured on the fire when Kim Seong-wook transferred from Ulsan to Jeonbuk and went full psycho with his celebration against his old fans. Then came the refereeing-bribery scandal that stripped Jeonbuk of their ACL berth — Ulsan went in their place and got knocked out — and Jeonbuk's Kim Jeong-su dropped the legendary "Ah, we're the ones doing it" initiating line that drove Ulsan fans completely off the deep end. From that point on, they treated Jeonbuk as public enemy number one.

Petty incidents kept stacking after that, and then Ulsan players went and racially abused a former Jeonbuk man named Sasalak and somehow walked away with a slap on the wrist. After that bomb went off, the two clubs became sworn enemies who gritted their teeth just looking at each other.

The reason the two sides that had once been the closest in the K-League started calling each other Maebuk and Chitsan was all of that.

Honestly, Jeonbuk had caused so many messes that they had plenty of enemies around the league… but the worst blood was reserved for Suwon and Ulsan.

I felt it as a player, and the fans outside howling the anthem felt it even harder — tonight, against those Ulsan bastards, losing was not an option. That was the mindset they'd brought into the stadium.

On top of that, Ulsan were defending champions. Beating them in Round 1 while both sides were fully fit probably felt better than meeting them later when the legs were already cooked.

For a match this big, Choon-jae hyung freezing up a little wasn't strange at all.

"Don't worry so much, hyung. We spent the last few days locking in our chemistry for exactly this kind of situation."

"Yeah, but… honestly, I still don't know. It's a box-to-box role, sure, but I'm not used to playing as a defensive midfielder."

Even with the pep talk, his face stayed rigid. Playing somewhere unfamiliar clearly had him wound tight.

But for today's match, the manager's call is right — better to station him as a defensive midfielder than a pure central one.

Hyung's strengths were creating chaos with that precise left foot and using his frame to screen opponents into oblivion. Weaknesses: limited dribbling, poor mobility, weak stamina, and those brain-dead sliding tackles that appeared the second he started to fade.

In central midfield those weaknesses are basically required stats. Drop him into the third line and you can paper over a lot of them.

Granted, it was still one of the most running-heavy positions on the pitch, so the stamina burden would only get worse. But freer of the press, with better chances to pick out a killer ball — the number eight spot wasn't a purely bad choice.

The manager clearly thought the same.

"We've practiced plenty, but this is the first time we're running it in a real match, so it may not feel natural. Some of you have switched positions and might be carrying that weight. So cover for each other and work through the game. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Remember this. Three things you need to keep in your heads. Press high up the pitch. If we lose the ball in their final third, don't drop back into a defensive line — press even harder and force the inaccurate long pass. And lastly…"

Manager Sun Ki-baek stepped away from the center of the room, walked right up to me and Choon-jae hyung, and planted a hand on each of our shoulders.

"No matter what happens, we keep two volantes. If Choon-jae pushes up to join the attack, Yi-an — you drop in with Gyeong-rok and hold the volante line in a more dynamic shape. Everyone got that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. I refuse to believe any of you want to watch the fans who came all the way to Jeonju Castle walk out of here looking miserable."

Sun Ki-baek smirked, moved back to the center, and raised his hand.

"Those bastards will be full of themselves. Bet anything they're spouting garbage about how they're the kings and we're just challengers sniffing around the throne. So let's spit it right back in their faces."

"…"

"Just like in 2010 — let's drag Jeonbuk into another golden age and make those Ulsan bastards remember what that felt like! Understood?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then let's go!"

The manager's shout detonated through the room, and the players answered with a thunderous round of applause. I headed out toward the pitch.

In K-League Round 1, the Mirae-ga Derby, Ulsan took a stance of controlled, stable football.

They kept a measure of pressure, but instead of ramping the press into a full-on strangulation, they leaned hard into inverted fullbacks and started a 3-2 build-up. When our press came, they worked the ball out fluidly and looked to exploit space with their quick wingers' runs.

Simple enough on paper. Stack that system on top of a clear quality gap in personnel, though, and it became a nightmare for the other side to crack.

Ulsan had chewed through the K-League with exactly that setup last season and were baring their teeth again. Unfortunately for them, Jeonbuk's counterplan sat one step higher this time.

Break the press with a stable rear build-up, then, the second the other side drops to reorganize their defensive line, hit the vacated space. That's the idea they walked in with… but we have no intention of reorganizing any defensive line.

Our tactics, in a single sentence: trade a measure of defensive security for maximum pressure.

Even if we lost the ball in their half, we didn't care. Instead of holding a back line to guard against the counter, we swarmed them and forced the long ball.

It was a dangerous approach. It could fail. Ulsan had one of the deeper squads in the K-League, packed with quality players — under a tight press, threading a perfect pass into space for a split second probably wasn't that hard for them.

Of course…

That only holds if there isn't a 191-centimeter volante with winger-level pace parked behind them like a wall.

"Yi-an! It's coming your way!"

Ulsan's plan to crush Jeonbuk through sheer squad quality and physical tier simply didn't work. Maybe against someone else. In this K-League, nobody had quality that came close to mine.

Case in point.

"Ah, dammit! Why won't you budge?!"

Keep shoving all you want hunting the second ball. This body isn't something a 170-centimeter stick figure can move.

The long ball drilled into their final third came floating toward me. I put my back into Ulsan's winger Oh Seo-woo, bent my knees, and held.

What players called screen play — better known as the classic back-to-the-man hold-up. A 191-centimeter frame planted in front of you like a mountain, and a skinny 174-centimeter winger couldn't force his way past. He started getting shoved backward instead.

A pass that had been stabbed perfectly into the channel for a winger transformed into a loose, inaccurate ball in a single heartbeat.

The first condition of the manager's system had just been met. The machinery started turning in earnest.

"Whew. That tiring you out? I'll let you go now — I'm heading off first!"

"You little—!"

I shrugged the winger's pressure off with almost no effort and drove straight toward the center circle. The second I moved, Choon-jae hyung kicked up his pace and sprinted ahead of me into space — already looking for a pocket where I could find him cleanly.

Because we're built on a high-press base, the moment a counter gets snuffed out, we hold a six-to-four numerical edge in their final third.

Even if the press collapsed onto Choon-jae hyung, he could work it out. He could do this. The Choon-jae hyung I knew could do this.

The thought finished, and my decision was already made.

"Choon-jae hyung! Send it straight forward or carry it yourself — either works! I've got the back, so don't even think about it!"

"Got it!"

Thump.

The ball arrived, and a clean first touch locked it under his control. Choon-jae hyung accelerated. The volante holding the middle charged out to press him —

…but it was March.

They said that when Guti had his day, you didn't need Zidane. Spring Kim Choon-jae was not a player one man could stop.

Thump. Whoosh—!

"Shaferi! Give it straight back and cut inside!"

"…Got it!"

"Ah—!"

The moment he actively used the quick Colombian winger who'd dropped deep to receive, the numerical gap ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠between Ulsan and Jeonbuk stretched to six-to-three.

Players who couldn't push any farther forward without abandoning their defensive line. Choon-jae hyung driving into the middle of it all.

Options everywhere. Feed either winger and get it into Yoon Seung-hwan. Or stab it straight into Seung-hwan himself. Or, given that kick of his, take a pop at goal on his own.

Three choices appeared. Choon-jae hyung had to pick one.

"Ah, screw it, I don't know!"

BOOM—!

Just as the midfielders ahead of him felt the late runners arriving, the ball left Choon-jae hyung's foot. His choice was option three — go for goal himself.

CLANG—!

A strike whipped so perfectly it could have come off peak Trent Alexander-Arnold or Kevin De Bruyne, bending toward the far post… and it smashed off the crossbar and bounced away.

"Ah! That should've—!"

"Ugh…"

A golden chance wasted. Choon-jae hyung covered his face with both hands. Still, it wasn't all bad. Even the lowest-percentage option among the three available to us had just proven it could still be a real threat.

Right. Hyung's a defensive midfielder, after all.

Even Aaron Ramsey got a free miss every now and then. A midfielder was allowed to waste one chance.

I was walking over to console him when it happened.

THWACK—!

"Ghk—!"

The ball that should have dropped to the other side slammed into Yoon Seung-hwan's face and ricocheted straight into the net.

Seung-hwan sprawled on the ground again. The Mad Green Boys started pounding like a second heartbeat. The sheer absurdity of the scene forced a hollow laugh out of me.

What? It bounced off the crossbar, hit Yoon Seung-hwan's face, and went in? Wow… ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is that what a finished striker looks like? The positioning on that is ridiculous.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Baek Yi-an — and you too, Choon-jae hyung! Why is it always me?!"

Two first-team games, five goals already, and he was still screeching like a kid having a tantrum. If that were me, I'd be going insane with joy. Why did he hate it so much?

Was he somehow embarrassed that only he was scoring?

Is that guy more selfless than he looks? Nah… a striker can't be like that. Forwards are supposed to be a little greedy… tsk.

He seemed genuinely uncomfortable being the only one putting the ball in the net. In that case, the only cure for that mindset was to force-feed him even more goals.

I nodded to myself, having thoroughly diagnosed Yoon Seung-hwan's inner world, and started walking calmly back toward our half.